Oh! sad is the night-time,

The night-time of sorrow,

When through the deep gloom, we catch but the boom

Of the waves that may whelm us to-morrow.

Job found Mrs Wilson pacing about in a restless way; not speaking to the woman at whose house she was staying, but occasionally heaving such deep oppressed sighs, as quite startled those around her.

"Well!" said she, turning sharp round in her tottering walk up and down, as Job came in.

"Well, speak!" repeated she, before he could make up his mind what to say; for, to tell the truth, he was studying for some kind-hearted lie which might soothe her for a time. But now the real state of the case came blurting forth in answer to her impatient questioning.

"Will's not to the fore. But he'll maybe turn up yet, time enough."

She looked at him steadily for a minute, as if almost doubting if such despair could be in store for her as his words seemed to imply. Then she slowly shook her head, and said, more quietly than might have been expected from her previous excited manner,

"Don't go for to say that! Thou dost not think it. Thou'rt well-nigh hopeless, like me. I seed all along my lad would be hung for what he never did. And better he were, and were shut of this weary world, where there's neither justice nor mercy left."

She looked up with tranced eyes as if praying to that throne where mercy ever abideth, and then sat down.

"Nay, now thou'rt off at a gallop," said Job. "Will has sailed this morning, for sure; but that brave wench, Mary Barton, is after him, and will bring him back, I'll be bound, if she can but get speech on him. She's not back yet. Come, come, hold up thy head. It will all end right."

"It will all end right," echoed she; "but not as thou tak'st it. Jem will be hung, and will go to his father and the little lads; where the Lord God wipes away all tears, and where the Lord Jesus speaks kindly to the little ones, who look about for the mothers they left upon earth. Eh, Job, yon's a blessed land, and I long to go to it, and yet I fret because Jem is hastening there. I would not fret if he and I could lie down to-night to sleep our last sleep; not a bit would I fret if folk would but know him to be innocent--as I do.

"They'll know it sooner or later, and repent sore if they've hanged him for what he never did," replied Job.

"Aye, that they will. Poor souls! May God have mercy on them when they find out their mistake."

Presently Job grew tired of sitting waiting, and got up, and hung about the door and window, like some animal wanting to go out. It was pitch dark, for the moon had not yet risen.

"You just go to bed," said he to the widow, "you'll want your strength for to-morrow. Jem will be sadly off, if he sees you so cut up as you look to-night. I'll step down again and find Mary. She'll be back by this time. I'll come and tell you everything, never fear. But, now, you go to bed."

"Thou'rt a kind friend, Job Legh, and I'll go, as thou wishest me. But, oh! mind thou com'st straight off to me, and bring Mary as soon as thou'st lit on her." She spoke low, but very calmly.

"Aye, aye!" replied Job, slipping out of the house.

He went first to Mr Bridgenorth's, where it had struck him that Will and Mary might be all this time waiting for him.

They were not there, however. Mr Bridgenorth had just come in, and Job went breathlessly up-stairs to consult with him as to the state of the case.

"It's a bad job," said the lawyer, looking very grave, while he arranged his papers. "Johnson told me how it was; the woman that Wilson lodged with told him. I doubt it's but a wildgoose chase of the girl Barton. Our case must rest on the uncertainty of circumstantial evidence, and the goodness of the prisoner's previous character. A very vague and weak defence. However, I've engaged Mr Clinton as counsel, and he'll make the best of it. And now, my good fellow, I must wish you good night, and turn you out of doors. As it is, I shall have to sit up into the small hours. Did you see my clerk, as you came up-stairs. You did? Then may I trouble you to ask him to step up immediately."

After this Job could not stay, and, making his humble bow, he left the room.

Then he went to Mrs Jones's. She was in, but Charley had slipped off again. There was no holding that boy. Nothing kept him but lock and key, and they did not always; for, once, she had him locked up in the garret, and he had got off through the skylight. Perhaps, now he was gone to see after the young woman down at the docks. He never wanted an excuse to be there.

Unasked, Job took a chair, resolved to await Charley's reappearance.

Mrs Jones ironed and folded her clothes, talking all the time of Charley and her husband who was a sailor in some ship bound for India, and who, in leaving her their boy, had evidently left her rather more than she could manage. She moaned and croaked over sailors, and seaport towns, and stormy weather, and sleepless nights, and trousers all over ............